Death Does Not Become Him
by Selvine das'Annwyn
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Fall. Contains spoilers. John Watson-centric. Takes place mostly in Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, in the morgue. Intended to follow the emotional rollercoaster immediately following the second-to-last scene in "The Reichenbach Fall". Not necessarily connected with my other pieces. Themes of death, anguish, need, deception, etc. Critiques welcomed/encouraged!


**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and most definitely not Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. o.o**

**WARNING: Post-Reichenbach Fall. Contains spoilers. Themes of death, sadness, need, ache, etc. Written while listening to Pandora Radio, using my "Sad Songs"** **list.**

**A/N: **Wow, I'm late on the update recently. Blame work, as I've picked up extra shifts, so I'm not really getting a day off. And when I do, it's used to catch up on sleep I should be getting all week, versus one day out of the week. The suckiest thing about not having a set shift: never having a set sleep schedule. ._. In any event, there's no real excuse, so I'll be trying to catch up where I can. It may mean some less-than-stellar writing, but I still want to get my practice in.

As for this piece, I just wanted to do another more depressing piece for the "Sherlock" fandom, as that seems to be where I fit in best with writing for these two. Hopefully it can at least hold your attention for a little while.

Only critique has come from my little sister, and it hasn't been edited/beta'd. Please feel free to review/comment/critique/etc as it is welcomed and encouraged! Also, as I try to take the time to respond to each PM that comes in, every favorite, every follow, and every review. My readers are my best source of encouragement!

Thanks for your time, your opinion, and most importantly - your Patience,  
-Selvine

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Death did not suit Sherlock Holmes; not as a reality, not as a façade. Death simply did not compliment the elegant cheekbones or lively ebony hair. Death did not bring beauty to the cool white of the detective's skin. Death's embrace did not bring color or pleasure to the figure of Sherlock Holmes, only the shocking, irreversible hue of blood.

Doctor John H. Watson was an old companion of Death, and as such they were on quite familiar terms. John had seen many a man whose entire complexion was bettered when Death entered the room, and many a man had been given his solace and his comfort in Death's listless arms. Death could be an acquaintance, a friend, a brother, or a lover. Death knew his realm and did as instructed by the hands of time. Here, however, he had crossed a line.

Sherlock Holmes, World's only Consulting Detective, lay cold and dead on a slab in the Morgue. The cunning blue depths of a trickster's eyes lay motionless and frozen beneath their lids. Skin, once shining and full of the endless vigor the young man had never seemed to lose, now lay bleak and taut, waxy in its appearance. Black curls, once vibrant and sleek sat limp and dull, strewn about the wounds along the man's scalp.

Blood had coagulated and dried, hardening into a crest upon Sherlock's crown and splattering the fibers of his hair with muck. The Doctor had seen much in his life, and he was used to Death. But this time, he could not look.

John Watson sank to the floor, a hand still clinging to the slab of metal upon which the younger Holmes brother rested, and cried. Dull chocolate eyes ached with the pain of loss and suffering, pools of need and denial forming at the corners and spilling over. Sherlock Holmes did not belong on this slab in front of him. Sherlock Holmes did not belong splayed, blood pouring from his body on a sidewalk, either. Sherlock Holmes did not belong to Death, and yet Death had taken him.

Blonde hair flopped down lazily, its usually brilliant luster dulled even in the stark lights of Bart's Morgue. Tanned hands clawed at the floor, and at the metal of Sherlock's resting place. Words hummed in the air around him, but none of it mattered. None of it mattered, none of it could matter ever again.

Silence filled him, and then the heart-wrenching sobs of someone torn into too many pieces to ever fathom filled the room. The clinical chatter, the sad stories, the incessant babble of those merely on the edge of Sherlock's existence ceased. The only sounds echoing around the morgue were those of an animal, enraged and frightened, and miserable beyond belief. As the "friends" of Sherlock Holmes watched, Doctor John Watson fell apart at the seams and erupted into a pit of misery and despair, howls of agony the only expression left in his empty body.

The tides ravaged the shores of John's mind, and his heart strained against his ribcage, threatening to break free at any given moment. Eventually the voices started again, humming with concern. Hands grasped the soldier's jacket and pulled, attempting to take him away. Indignant yells of need and hate flew from his lips, and hands bit into the blanket adorning the limp body above him. Tears continued falling, and steadily those present trickled from the room. When the building grew dark, and a soft female voice called from the doorway, John Watson waved her off with a half gesture. Time passed; maybe minutes, maybe hours, it didn't really matter anymore, and the veteran lay there, clinging desperately to the metal on which his best friend found his respite. Slowly, the torrents tapered, and then disappeared entirely. An occasional sniff turned to pure silence, and then the quiet shuffling of a man righting himself.

A scrape of shoe against the floor, the squeak of wheels, and the clang of a metal door opening echoed in the night. Cold air blasted the room around him, and by himself, John Watson raised the body of the only person he'd truly connected with into a long black hole in the wall. And then closed the door.

He leaned, just for a moment, before moving on his way. Soft footsteps echoed down the halls, and as he left the depths of the hospital, he was on his way. Nearing the door, the doctor sighed, the bags under his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights he would have here-on-out. The door opened, and Doctor John Watson left Saint Bartholomew's and entered the night.

As he walked down the street, heading in no particular direction, John Watson was unaware of the eyes that followed him, and the breaking heart he'd left behind. Piercing blue narrowed with the desire to reach out, to say something, then closed. A tall figure, alone in the dark, turned and walked away.

* * *

**A/N:** Short, yes, I know. I'm trying to work on writing more multi-chapter pieces, but I seem to do best, for practice anyway, with drabbles, so for the most part that's what you'll see. Especially as I want to know I can finish what I'm writing before I post the first chapter, so perhaps composing them as connected drabbles is the best option after all. As per usual, we shall see.

In any event, thank you for reading and for sharing your time with me. I know it may not seem like much, but I know it's time you could have spent elsewhere, and I truly appreciate you spending that moment of your life with me. Especially when feedback is involved.

Also: I really hate the formatting system FF uses when you're writing out these notes, as I keep getting bold where I want regular, or regular where I want bold, or an enter when all I'm doing is changing the font type (bold/italic/normal), and it's driving me CRAZY, as getting the proper outcome doesn't seem to have a set solution as of yet. RAWRZ.

Anyway, critiques and reviews are again - welcomed and encouraged. I look forward to hearing from those of you who have a moment they're willing to dedicate to communicating with me! :)

Thanks Again,  
-Sel


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